Sorry for any fan mail i've sent twice/not replied to. My internet is being awful.
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Sorry for any fan mail i've sent twice/not replied to. My internet is being awful.
whispers if you're still doing that palette thing then can i get biohazard in 24
im so sorry
anyway
losers probably got into a dumb argument over nothing
‘icarus it’s just a fucking phone it’s not that hard to use’
‘its unintuitive. and moronic’
‘theres labels for fucking everything how is it unintuitive’
‘...im done talking. about this.’
if you were lost in a crowd i'd yell "THERE'S A REALLY FLUFFY CAT OVER HERE" and that would guarantee i find you
i would be on my way in like 0.5 seconds i can guarantee it
(ಥ﹏ಥ) for any ship(s)
“Velite, you are not a child, stop crying.”
fresh pepe
redone kotaru sprites
woop
Dancing to the Music
Your newest musical was almost over, and the attendance of your fans and future fans was divine. You could hear the whoops and cheers when you backflip in the midst of the finale, and when it's finished and everyone's cheering and screaming, you wink at a certain teal blood, sauntering off stage after the lights go out and the bows begin, your breathing slightly uneven from exertion. The second you're off stage you collapse in a chair, rubbing your leg. Exxlee had said not to dance for eight weeks but you couldn't wait nearly that long. Oh well. You tell your bouncers that control the crowd they can let in a tall teal blood that you'd liked right away. You take off your jacket so you're left in your tank top, chugging some water with a heavily tattooed arm.
Zafani>Die of boredom.
It was day many of day even more stranded at this godamn hospital, and you were damn near insanity. You couldn't get high or drunk and sex usually resulted in being walked in on and scolded. You'd tried to convince your mate to take you away but he refused. Of course he would. His moirail was here. And he loves you enough to acknowledge you were being a stubborn asshole. Right now all you do is just roll on top of him and wiggle into his shirt with a sigh, your grub passed out on a pile of clothes. "Min. Min. Min."